Standing Outside the Fire
by Little Ghost14
Summary: Plagued by reports of the Targaryens, King Robert sends the only man he can trust to neutralise them for good. But Eddard Stark is a man of honour, caught between duty to his King and protecting the lives of the innocent, his choices are few. But he knows he must do the right thing, regardless of Robert Baratheon. Set a decade before the show. Dany/Jon eventually.
1. Strike or be Stricken

**Summary: **Set ten years before the books/TV show. Barely established on the Iron Throne, Robert Baratheon is plagued and tormented with reports of the last Targaryens. His Queen, Cersei Lannister, has just given birth and now he has an heir whose future he must also protect. The time has come to wipe the last Targaryens out, once and for all and there's only man he can trust with the mission – Eddard Stark. But would a man of honour, like Eddard Stark really do it?

**Disclaimer: I own none of this. GRR Martin/HBO own everything and I make no profit from this. Apologies if I have the ages of the younger characters slightly wrong, but I've altered them so that Sansa is a little younger than Joffrey and, IIRC, Viserys was about 9-10 years older than Dany.**

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**Chapter One: Strike or be Stricken (Epilogue)**

"They grow so fast, Your Grace." Grand Maester Pycelle fell into step beside King Robert as he hovered at the door of the nursery. Inside, Prince Joffrey was already on his feet and taking his first, tentative steps; chubby hands pressed into the rough stone walls to keep him steady as he toddled. In the corner of the nursery, Queen Cersei smiled indulgently at their young son, oblivious to Robert who continued to look in on the scene from a distance. Although no public declaration had yet been made, there was another child in her belly already. An heir and a spare, the succession secured.

Sensing that the Grand Maester hadn't come cringing out of the shadows just to exchange meaningless clichés about child rearing, Robert pushed himself away from the wall to face the man. The old man had been lurking in the galleries of the Red Keep so long, he was almost a part of the furniture, like the Iron Throne itself. He was just there. All the time.

"Get to the point, Pycelle," said Robert, sotto voce as to avoid disturbing the veneer of domestic bliss being played out in the adjoining chamber.

Pycelle almost looked affronted, but gave up the act as he turned away from the nursery. Robert followed him, soon overtaking as he led the way into a nearby antechamber where old banners were stored, awaiting repairs. Away from the nursery, the silence was absolute. If he strained his ears, Robert could almost hear the stones themselves breathing in the soft winds from outside. The air was heavy with dust, the motes swirling and catching the sunlight that streamed in from a tiny, overhead window. Against one wall, the crowned stag of House Baratheon stood resplendent in cloth of silver and cold.

"They haven't gone away, you know," said Pycelle, maddening King Robert with his vagaries.

"Who?" he demanded to know, as if he couldn't already guess.

"You know who I mean, Your Grace," Pycelle replied, his voice barely more than a whisper. He narrowed his eyes as he continued. "They're in Braavos, in a very distinctive house with a red door-"

"I take it that Varys' birds have been twittering up a storm?" Robert cut over him. Varys was probably hearing this conversation as it happened; the man was like smoke and everywhere at once.

Pycelle nodded.

Robert hardly needed reminding that his grip on the Iron Throne would not be safe until the last Targaryens were cold in their graves. How old is the boy, Viserys, now? Thirteen or fourteen. Almost a man grown. Old enough to wed and sire children. Rebel Targaryens breeding like rabbits. Even the girl, a child still, would not be a girl forever. Her sons would have a claim. People would rise up in rebellion in their name. After all, there were still those in the seven Kingdoms who called him "usurper".

King Robert brought a hand to his mouth and chewed thoughtfully on the nail on his index finger, frowning as he went over the options. It was an aberration. But, the beggar King Viserys wouldn't think twice about sending an assassin to slit his and Joffrey's throats in the middle of the night. It was strike, or be stricken. Inside, Robert felt his insides turn to stone.

"Thank you, Maester Pycelle."

The subject was closed. Understanding the fact of the matter, Grand Maester Pycelle bowed his slender frame in obeisance to the King and backed cautiously out of the antechamber. Robert stood silent and contemplative as he listened to the old man's footsteps receding down the gallery outside. Pycelle, Varys, all the men who surrounded him in fact, had also served the Mad King. Could he trust them with the task? Could he trust them to really slay the children of their old master? With a sickening feeling in his stomach, he realised he had no choice. The Kingslayer would do it without question, seeing as he was the Queen's brother. But he was needed at King's Landing. Ser Barristan Selmy would do. But he was another of the old King's crowd and Robert knew he needed someone whose loyalty to him was unwavering to oversee the operation. One man, alone, who he would trust with his life.

* * *

Her name rolled off his tongue like poetry: Sansa Stark. One tiny hand curled around the swaddling blanket, slip of a thump creeping into the soft, mewling mouth. It brought a tear to Eddard's eye as he cradled his new born daughter. Perched on the edge of Catelyn's childbed, he had to turn his head to see his wife, still exhausted from her ordeal. But she was young and strong and he knew she would be up and about again in no time. Right at that moment, however, she lay back against a bank of fluffed pillows and raised a weak smile. Her joy was in her eyes, glittering with the elation she felt inside upon birthing her first daughter.

Clutching the tiny bundle carefully to his chest, Ned leaned down and brushed a soft kiss against his wife's forehead,

"I want to show her the sky," he said, grinning from ear to ear. "I won't be long, but try and get some sleep."

Catelyn's expression appeared troubled. "Don't take her away from me yet, Ned."

He shook his head, quick to assuage her worries. "I'm only bringing her to the window."

Catelyn looked much happier for his reassurance and smiled as he rose and crossed the room. Opposite her bed, were large bay windows that looked out over the keep of Winterfell. He held Sansa up, careful to hold her swaddling in place to ward off the Northern chills. High overhead, an opalescent sky stretched into the distance. From there on down, Ned provided his infant daughter with a running commentary of the view from the bay windows.

"And there's the North Tower," he said, speaking softly and taking Sansa's little arm in his free hand, pointing it at various things and people. "There's Hodor in the stables, and those are the horses and there are the hounds…"

Finally, he reached the point he really wanted little Sansa to see. Ned chanced a glance over his shoulder to see if Cat had fallen asleep, but she had not. She watching him, smiling serenely from her pillows as she watched him. Inwardly, he sighed and turned back to the little boy he could see from his window. Old Nan had stationed him there especially.

'_And there's your brother, Jon,'_ Ned thought to himself, unable to say the words aloud with Cat looking on.

Jon was only five and, from their vantage point, no bigger than a thimble. But Ned could still see his pale, little up-turned face, framed by dark wiry curls; looking up at them and waving enthusiastically. Ned smiled and, still holding Sansa's hand, waved back down at him. After a second, Jon picked up his little wooden sword from where he'd propped it against the wall. Ned watched him until he was out of sight, undoubtedly off to bash a man of straw – vital practise for a future man of the Black Watch, or any other martial activity for that matter.

Ned returned Sansa to Catelyn, who clutched her protectively. He himself wished to go to the Godswood and give thanks to the old Gods for the safe delivery of his daughter. Once he'd excused himself, and taken one final look at the baby, he left. However, he had not gone far before he was cannonballed while rounding the corner into the Great Hall, by an over-excited boy.

"Papa! Papa!"

Robb was standing on tip-toe, but still only able to reach Ned's waist, which he clung to fervently. He was closely tailed by a harassed looking Old Nan, who clutched the lapel of her roughspun gown as she tried to keep up with the Stark force of nature.

"Can we see the new baby now, Papa?" Robb asked, looking up at his father imploringly.

Ned placed a hand on the child's head, smoothing back the auburn curls. "Your Lady Mother needs rest, son," he said, breaking it to him gently. "And she's still a girl, Robb."

When Robb was informed of his sister's birth, his first question had been: "can we swap her for a boy?" quickly followed by: "can she turn into a boy?" They broke the facts of life to him gently.

"I don't care about that anymore, Papa," Robb chimed. "I acknowledge Sansa as my sister, anyway."

Ned laughed, ruffling the boy's hair in that way he hated. "That's very gallant of you, son. But, maybe later. Go outside and play with Jon, unless Nan has other ideas."

He glanced over at the elder lady, still breathless from keeping up with her charge. Robb responded with a sullen pout, quickly reversed with one stern look from his father. Ned gently extricated himself from his son, handing him over to Nan.

"Pardon me, My Lord," she said, accepting the child back in her care. "I will bring him back to see his new sister tomorrow."

It took another half an hour for Ned to reach the sacred space of the Godswood. He had been stopped every five paces by well-wishers and employees looking to congratulate him on Sansa's safe arrival, just the day before. When he reached the place, however, he breathed deeply and freely. The air was cool and clean out there. Unlike the heat of the castle that reeked constantly on the press of human flesh, kitchens and stale rushes that lined the floor. Outside, he could be alone with his Gods and give, already overdue, thanks.

The faces in the trees seemed to follow him as he crossed grass and came to a rest beside a small, stagnant pond. The ground was moist and soft, but he knelt down anyway. But, before he could start, a nearby throat was cleared, swiftly followed by the sound of footfalls. Ned sighed deeply, turning to see Maester Luwin approaching cautiously, letter in hand.

"Forgive my interruption, my lord," he said, gravely. "But this will not wait."

Ned's gaze wandered from Maester Luwin's face down to the letter he held in his hands. The wax was gold, royal. It had come from King's Landing. The hope that King Robert was writing to congratulate him was small. Non-existent, seeing as Sansa was barely a day old and Robert couldn't possibly know about it yet.

"Have you read it?" asked Ned, rising to his feet again.

Luwin shook his head. "It is from the King," he said, by way of explanation. "The Raven arrived these twenty minutes past."

Reluctantly, Ned took the letter and broke the seal. He was curious about what his old friend, King Robert, had to say. It was merely the Raven's timing that was unfortunate. Still, it didn't feel right to engage in official business while standing in the sacred spot of the Godswood, so he slowly trod towards the boundary as he read. By the time he left, he had read the whole thing through once, but wasn't sure he had understood it. Maester Luwin followed, a pace behind Ned and keeping close, while the letter was read again.

Satisfied that he was not seeing things, or misconstruing the meaning, Ned numbly folded the letter and handed it back to Luwin.

"Read it," he commanded, bluntly.

Together, they carried on walking back towards the forecourt of Winterfell. They slowed to a strolling pace so they could speak privately before arriving back at the hubbub of the Castle itself, where the world and its dog would overhear them.

"He wants you to see to it that one of his lackeys kills two children," Maester Luwin summarised, using the bluntest possible words.

"He wants me to help do the deed itself, I should imagine," Ned added, still feeling numb. "The thought makes me want to vomit, Maester Luwin,"

He would not do it, of that he was resolved. The girl, Daenarys, was barely out of infancy. Barely older than the babe Ned had held in his arms an hour before. The boy considerably old than she, but even so…

"If I turn this down, Robert will question my loyalty," Ned said, thinking aloud. "If I do it, I will be damned for all eternity."

Above and beyond anything else, Eddard Stark was a man of honour. He had thought that with the arrival of his children, he would learn to be more flexible. But the reality was that his honour had only been reinforced – he had to teach by example and his son was to be Lord of Winterfell after him. But, now he reached an impasse that could only bring dishonour: defy the King he helped to the crown; kill two children; or stand idly by while someone else killed two children.

"My Lord," said Maester Luwin, tugging at the chain round his neck. "I think we need to discuss this."

**TBC**


	2. Poking the Dragon

**Thank you for all the encouraging reviews, I really appreciate it. Apologies for the religion error and I hope to get that chapter corrected soon. Thank you again for the feedback.**

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**Chapter Two: Poking the Dragon**

Viserys was growing restless again. All that stood between him and the Usurper's hired assassins was Ser Willem Darry, an ageing knight whose unyielding loyalty to House Targaryen was offset by his advancing years and failing eyesight. Adding to the heady mix was Daenerys, his three year old sister. She was three, going on four. Turn your back for two minutes and she would be off – making for the doors, running across the streets or sticking her fingers in fires both physical and metaphorical _(as if she's a proper dragon!)._ Too little to recall the horrors of the past, she had not been robbed of her child's innocence or trust for strangers. More than once, he had turned to see her grinning up at an indulgent stranger, charmed by the silver haired, violet eyed child. There were the Faceless Men – a guild of assassins based in Braavos itself, stealing through the shadowed streets of the Free Cities and running blades of fine, Valyrian steel across unsuspecting throats. Both he and his sister, still too young to fully understand the dangers, could fall victim to any of them and at any time.

He had slapped her, berated her until she squealed the walls down and locked her in her chamber. People looked at him sidelong, dark disapproval etched in their frowns as they formed hasty judgments. But how could he tell them? How could he explain to them that Dany was his last living relative? How could he explain that he and Dany had to be lucky all the time, while the Usurper across the sea only had to be lucky once? If he lost her, he lost everything. Not just the only family he had left, but his chance to regain all that he had lost.

The moment Dany flowered for the first time, she would be married off to someone, anyone, who brought with them an army. There was talk of Viserys himself being married off to Arianne Martell, a Dornish Princess – an invaluable alliance with Dorne that could help leapfrog him back on to the Iron Throne, sweeping the Usurper and his forces into the sea as he went. That was all well and good if the alliance actually happened. But, for now, all he had was Dany. She was more than his only sister, she was his only weapon.

At that moment, he was watching her from the doorway of Ser Willem's house. She was wrapped up in a thick cape to keep the drizzling rain off her, the hood pulled up to conceal her distinctive silver blond hair. Red boots splashed in shallow puddles as she tottered down the narrow path, blocked by the gate that had been safely latched.

"Dany! No!"

His voice rang out shrilly as he launched himself toward her before she could reach for the latch and make a bid for freedom. Catching her just as her small fist closed around the steel bar he gave her a sharp yank backwards and a ringing slap on her bare leg beneath the cloak. _She must learn,_ he thinks to himself as she fixes him with tearful eyes. Like so many times before, he hardens himself to her cries and tightens his grip on her wrist as he marches her back indoors.

Once inside again, he gives her a firm shake.

"How. Many. Times," he spits each word between rough shakes. "They. Will. Kill. You."

Her hood had fallen down, messing up her hair from its binding. He stops, but still holds her firmly by the shoulders. His gaze rakes over her crying face, trying to see if there's any sign that his warnings are sinking in. She must understand. But all he sees is his own eviscerating fear reflected back at him in her contorted face.

"Your Grace, please."

Viserys straightened up and whirled round to see Ser Willem emerging from the solar, propping himself against the doorframe. The old knight was fixing him with a penetrative look, just as all those strangers in the street did. A flicker of anger swept through him as the judgment bit deep. But, Viserys held his tongue as Ser Willem's expression softened and turned to Dany. He smiled gently at her crying face.

"To me, Princess Daenerys," he said, spreading his arms.

The child shot across the small hallway, straight up to Ser Willem where she proceeded to wrap her arms around him. She could only reach his thigh, so he patted her head and smoothed down her ruffled hair. She calmed quickly, whereupon Ser Willem tilted up her chin.

"Now sweetling," he said, keeping his tone gentle. "You know there are dangers outside and you must remain close. Just until you're older and stronger. You understand, don't you?"

Viserys watched in irritation as Dany nodded her head and formulated some mumbled, sniffling reply. With the promise of a lemon cake, Dany was ushered into the solar. Before he followed her Ser Willem looked back over his shoulder, squinting at Viserys through his failing eyes.

"Sometimes, Your Grace, a little patience and understanding can work wonders."

With that, he left Viserys loitering in the hallway and grinding his teeth in annoyance. The sanctimonious old goat was poking at the Dragon inside him and well he knew it. But what could he do? Ser Willem was still all that stood between them and the Usurper's assassins. It was just one frustration piled onto another.

* * *

"Ned."

Catelyn's voice was little above a soft whisper in the semi-darkness. However, Ned did not reply immediately. He was turned on his side as they lay in bed, late in the night. Just two of the candles were still alight, the others having burnt down to the stubs and been extinguished by their own dripping wax. It had been so quiet, Ned could almost hear the warm water running through the floors of their bedchamber. Until Catelyn spoke again.

"Ned, I know you're awake."

A hand reached out and rested on his shoulder, bringing him round. He turned over to face her, where she rested against the feather pillow with her auburn air in a heat plait partially hidden under a white coif. Worry was lined in her expression as she regarded him closely from the other side of their bed. Like all great lords, Ned had his own private chambers adjacent to Catelyn's, but he needed her close to him. As well, he realised he needed her counsel now, more than ever.

"You have not slept properly for days now, my love," she added, bringing her hand up to his face where she ran a finger along his stubbled jaw.

Without replying, he swung himself out of the bed and retrieved the latter King Robert sent by raven just the other day. He glanced over it, wondering whether it was even fair of him to drag Catelyn into this abomination. On second thoughts, however, he realised that if he wished to retain his sanity, he had no other choice.

"Read this," he said, climbing back into bed beside her.

Now Catelyn sat up and frowned at the innocent looking parchment. After a brief glance up at him, she gave the letter her full attention. Ned studied her reaction carefully, noting how her grip on the edges tightened to the point where her nails broke the surface of the margin. Her frown deepened and hardened as she read it through for a second time. At first, it was as though she had lost her tongue and couldn't formulate the words to articulate her horror. All she did was shake her head, drop her jaw and shake her head again as she looked from the letter to Ned.

"Ned, you cannot," she finally said. "They're children. The little one is no older than…"

Her words trailed off where Jon's name should be. She could not find it within herself to ever love the bastard son, but never would she hire assassins to wipe him out, either.

"No older than Robb," she added.

Their eyes met while Catelyn still held the letter. Ned himself was still divided on what to do and he had spent three nights now dwelling and brooding on it. Hour after hour kneeling before the Heart Tree, praying to his Gods for guidance until his breeches were soaked and his knees ached. Discussing it now made him restless once more. Disentangling himself from the bed sheets once more, he got up and poured them both cups of wine. The Direwolf sigil of house Stark snarled at him from the silver as it caught to fading candlelight as he handed one to Catelyn.

"If I refuse this mission, Robert will get over it. We are friends, after all," said Ned.

"But he won't thank you for it," she put in. "It would be handing the Lannisters another rod for your back-"

"The Lannisters don't concern me," he retorted, coming to rest at the windows. "But if I don't do it, someone else will. Someone who won't think twice before dashing out the brains of a child barely more than a suckling babe. Am I supposed to sit back and let it happen?"

Silence fell, in which they both sunk deep into their own consciences. Ned turned towards the north tower, where his own children slept safe in their beds. In an adjacent chamber to their own, Sansa was swaddled and safe under the care of a wet nurse and Old Nan. He wished he could be like other Knights: utterly impervious to his own emotions and honour. But there was no use pretending that that didn't come into it. He was still a man and not just a title.

"It's not as though we did not know King Robert was hunting these children," said Catelyn, breaking the silence. "Honour to one side, we turned a blind eye then."

"But this is different, Cat," he sighed, setting his cup of wine down on the sill. "I've been dragged directly into the plot and now I have a choice to do it, or save them."

Catelyn leaned back against the headboard and sighed. He knew she understood his dilemma, and hated it just as much as he did. Eventually, she grasped at another slim chance of resolution.

"I hear reports from the Iron Islands, Ned. Balon Greyjoy is growing restive once more," she explained, learning forward again. "Play for time, at least, by telling Robert you will be needed here in case of real trouble."

Catelyn spoke true, Ned knew that. But there was more; more he could not tell her. Bound as he was a promise made not so long ago to a dying woman, who now lay cold in the vaults deep under Winterfell. He made Lyanna a solemn promise and that alone stilled his tongue.

"Robert laughs in the face of Balon Greyjoy! The Great King Squid, Robert calls him," he said, even allowing himself a chuckle. But then he composed himself and dropped his voice. "I must do it. I must go."

"Ned!" Catelyn gasped, eyes widening in shock.

"No, not that," he quickly clarified. "I will not kill them; but I must go. There must be something I can do. Make it look like a near miss. But appear to make an effort."

_The little girl is young enough to remember nothing of this,_ Ned thought to himself, _but the boy – Viserys is almost a man grown, what of him? _It sounded so hopelessly idealistic. It was hopelessly idealistic. But he couldn't let the child die.

Catelyn took a deep, cleansing breath and smiled a sad smile. "It's better than having the blood of innocent children on your hands," she concurred. "But do not ask me to be pleased that, yet again, you ride out to fight King Robert's battles for him."

Her discomfiture aside, Ned felt his heart resolve on the course of action. There came a point where a stand had to be made, and this was it. He would set out for King's Landing the next day and, with his course of action decided, he felt his resolve strengthen. Catelyn beckoned him back into bed, where they made love for the last time in only the Gods knew how long.

* * *

Queen Cersei extended one slender arm to pluck the letter from Robert's fingers. He looked up at her, scowling but remained silent as she read over the brief memorandum. She pursed her lips as she read over it, one hand resting on her belly where the babe quickened inside. She winced, but did not let it distract her from the business of Westeros. They were in their chambers, shut off from the rest of Court and it was where Cersei knew she held most sway over her husband.

"Ned Stark will never do this," she pointed out, curtly. "Oh, I'm sure his excuses will be suitably sugar coated and placatory. But he will not do it. You seem to forget that your dear friend actually has a conscience."

Robert grumbled inarticulately as he snatched the letter back. "Maybe if you spent less time trying to second guess everyone and more time being a wife-"

"Am I failing in my duties in some way?" she demanded, voice rising in pitch. Robert didn't answer, he just glowered back at her through narrowing eyes. He had struck her before, but he would not dare to do so again, not while she was pregnant. But, he has no answer because he knows she is right. She took the letter back, pinching it between tapering fingers. "My brother-"

"Is needed here," he cut her off.

"Just so," she sighed. She hadn't wanted to part with him, but she trusted him more than any Stark. Still, she opted not to pursue the matter. It was all very well him not taking the threat from the Targaryens seriously, he wouldn't be the one dealing with it. Their son, Prince Joffrey, would. "When Ned refuses you, who will you send in his stead? Gregor Clegane would be my choice."

Ser Gregor would do it. He would send the heads of the last Targaryens to them, dropping them at her feet. That is, if he didn't eat them first. Cersei wouldn't put anything past the Mountain. Beside her, Robert huffed sullenly.

"Anything to keep you happy."

_Anything to keep me silent_, she inwardly translated.

"Whoever does it had best be quick," she added, keeping her eyes on the letter. "Varys tells me the boy is to be married to Arianne of Dorne-"

"Piss on that!" he nonchalantly interjected.

This time, Cersei chuckled. For once, her husband had echoed her thoughts precisely. _Piss on that indeed_, she thought, _and_ _from a great height, too!_

Just then, the doors opened and a young page announced the arrival of Maester Pycelle. Robert rolled his eyes and Cersei smiled as she beckoned him to be admitted. The old Maester's chains clanked as he shuffled into the chamber and bobbed a stiff bow to them both. From inside his drooping sleeve he produced a small roll of parchment.

"A raven arrived from Winterfell, Your Grace," he said, handing it to King Robert with his head bowed.

_Here we go_, thought Cersei, already feeling the glow of being proved right. Again. She turned, elbow braced on her armrest as she propped her chin in her hands. Smiling at Robert, she waited to hear exactly how Eddard Stark would fob off her husband this time. Robert, however, smiled broadly.

"There you go," he said, waving the letter triumphantly in her face. "There's your excuses right there."

Her smile faded as she took the letter and schooled her expression. Stark agreed. He was on his way to King's Landed for further instructions and would be there within the month.

"Well I never," she trilled, letting the letter fall from her fingers and back into Robert's lap. Inside, she was roiling. Still, it remains to be seen if Stark can come up with the goods.

* * *

**TBC**


	3. Across the Narrow Sea

**A/N:** thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your feedback is very much appreciated. Thank you. Also, apologies for the delay in this update – the next will be much more prompt.

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**Chapter Three: Across the Narrow Sea**

It took them a month to reach King's Landing. Outriders travelled ahead, clearing the roads and relaying advance warning of oncoming parties. Men at Arms were deployed for protection, while Ned was careful to keep his whole company small. Even five years on from Robert's rebellion, the countryside could be lawless and the populace still cowered before large groups of armed men. It was for the best all round that Ned keep it low-key. Still, the journey took a full month.

Finally, in the fifth week of travel, Aegon's Hill slipped into view, along with the Red Keep sprawled protectively along the summit, high over King's Landing. As soon as the fortress was clearly visible, Ned sent a message down to the outriders to make haste ahead of them, alerting the Kings Guard to their imminent arrival. Once they were on their way, Ned and Jory spurred their horses into a brisk gallop as they closed in on the capital city, only slowing again as they passed through the crowded streets of Flea Bottom.

By the time they did pass through the wrought iron gates of the Red Keep, the commander of the King's Guard, Ser Barristan Selmy, was already waiting to greet Ned and his men. Selmy dismounted his destrier and smiled broadly as he crossed the court yard.

"My Lord of Winterfell, welcome back to King's Landing," his voice boomed enthusiastically as he opened his arms.

Somewhat taken aback by the Lord Commander's over-familiarity, Ned reciprocated once he, also, was dismounted. Ser Barristan leaned in close as they embraced, and his intent soon became clear in the suddenly grave expression on his face.

"I must talk privately with you – Dragon cellars, as soon as possible," Selmy murmured softly, right in Ned's ear before pulling away. The smile was back on Selmy's face, to the casual observer the encounter was nothing more than two old friend's greeting each other.

No more was said as Eddard was escorted in to the throne room, where he would be formally presented to the King. Meanwhile, Jory and the others who had travelled with Ned were being accommodated elsewhere. Despite all that had occurred in the years since Ned was last here, it looked remarkably similar. The Iron Throne looked as lethal as ever, with its many pointed swords protruding at every angle. The broad, open chamber with draughts sweeping in from every hidden crevice and its long, dark shadows thrown against the decorative support pillars. It all felt horribly alien to Ned after years in the close comfort of Winterfell.

From the entrance, Ser Jaime Lannister greeted Ned with a cold, but respectful, inclining of the head. A gesture Ned responded to with equal chilly formality. Mercifully, moments later, the silence of the throne room was shattered as King Robert's hearty shouts and oaths echoed down through the connecting gallery. A second after a particularly resounding "piss on that" directed at an unfortunate and unseen lackey, Robert strode into view and Ned grinned from ear to ear. Years of friendship, nigh on brotherhood, had long since melted any formality between Ned and the King (if it had ever existed in the first place) and they greeted one another warmly. A bear hug and a playful punch on the shoulder before falling into chatter about times gone by as they withdrew to an intimate antechamber.

As soon as they had wine and Robert's hangers on had been discreetly dismissed, Ned selected his moment carefully. It came when the King had polished off his fourth horn of strong ale and was just starting to relax into a comfortable level of tipsy.

"Robert, are you sure this is the only way?" he asked, through the dying laughter of the King's last joke. "I mean the Targaryens-"

"I know who you mean," Robert cut over him, his smile vanishing fast. He turned serious far quicker than Ned had anticipated, his brow furrowing deep. "It's the only way, Ned. Cut them out, root and branch; it's the only way."

Ned leaned back in his seat, taking a measured sip of his own ale. He'd controlled his drinking and it was only his second top-up. He needed his wits about him if he was to stand a chance of navigating this discussion successfully.

"They're children, Your Grace," he said, falling back on formality to impress his point upon the King. "Are you absolutely sure that this is what you want?"

"Damn it, Ned," Robert groaned, sounding defeated rather than angry. "Want is not the word here. I don't want this anymore than I want a hole in my head. It is 'need', Ned. This needs to be done. And who else can I trust but you? Make sure Selmy does his job. I wouldn't ask you to do this … deed yourself."

It was one of the lynchpins of his own personal philosophy: the one who passes the sentence must be the one who wields the sword. But Ned did not pass this sentence, nor would he ever. It was then that he recalled Selmy and his meeting in the dungeons. Seeing no way out of this pass, Ned finally agreed to sail out to Braavos with Selmy in the morning before finally getting away again. He tried to do the right thing, but failed.

* * *

Selmy was already waiting for him, down in the cellar where the skeletal dragon heads lined the walls. Even with the empty sockets, it felt as though he was being watched by the ancient beasts. It was cold, dusty and echoing. Shadows distorted by the flames of the torches ensconced on the walls mutated the shape of the skulls, making them even more monstrous in appearance.

"Ser Barristan," Ned greeted the Commander formally.

They could now dispense with the forced bonhomie. Varys and his birds wouldn't be able to track them down here – if the Gods were kind.

"You tried to change his mind, I take it?" Ser Barristan asked, all business now.

Even in the cellars, they kept their voices to barely more than a whisper. It was as though the dragons could hear them, or Varys had actually somehow concealed himself in the largest of them. Ned even found his gaze wandering over the bigger ones, just to be sure. When he looked back at Ser Barristan, the man was pale and shaken.

"I honestly did try," he replied, before explaining to him what he'd explained to Cat before he left. If they didn't do it, someone else would. "What have you heard about the boy, Viserys? The Master of Whispers must have told you something."

Ser Barristan shrugged. "Angry. Vengeful. Half mad with grief. Determined to win back what Robert took from his family. Even if we do get him to safety, he'll not stay long there before he starts making so much noise they'll hear him on the Wall."

Naturally, thought Ned. Viserys was old enough to remember it all and there are some things a child can never recover from. But it was all beside the point, for Ned. The simple fact remained the same.

"We can't do this thing," he told Ser Barristan, shaking his head. "We can at least get the girl to safety, Barristan. She's only three. She'll remember nothing of this. She won't even remember she had a brother, never mind a claim to the throne-"

"But how?" Barristan interjected. "We're risking it all just by having this conversation."

Never a truer word spoken. But Ned trusted Barristan Selmy. They had fought together many times during Robert's rebellion, but he also suspected that Selmy was one of the few who possibly turned a blind eye as the last Targaryens had been spirited away. Like Jaime Lannister, Ser Barristan was Kings Guard for Aerys, too. This mission was no more palatable for him than it was for Ned.

"I have no idea," Ned admitted, ruefully. "But we can't talk about it here. Wait until we're on the ship for Braavos, well away from the Red Keep. Surely we'll be safe at sea?"

"You've brought Jory with you?"

"Yes," Ned answered.

"Then post him on the cabin door and we can talk fully," Barristan suggested.

Ned nodded in agreement. If one thing was going his way, it was finding an early ally in Ser Barristan. Their meeting ended after just a few short minutes, before anyone could notice either of them missing. Ned still had to change his clothes before dining with Robert and Cersei. He had yet to meet Prince Joffrey and get caught up on all the changes in the already extraordinary life of his dearest friend. The friend he was about to betray – even if for the best possible reason.

* * *

Going in Ned's favour, the mission was to be top secret. As far as the Court was concerned, Ser Barristan was escorting Ned to the Free Cities to close a trade agreement, with Jory tagging along as back up for Selmy. Word was that they were sailing to Dorne, not Braavos, in an attempt to throw potential snoopers off the scent. At first light, the day after Ned's arrival in King's Landing, a small skiff boat was moored for them. The Oarsmen rowed them out to a much larger galley, out in Blackwater Bay. Once they had ascended the rope ladder and climbed safely on board, the anchor was hauled up and they were on their way.

"So, the King's sent you because he doesn't trust me, is that the measure of it?" Selmy asked Ned once they were holed up in their cabin.

Ned wished he could contradict the man, but there was no one else Robert could trust. They were like brothers. And Robert was still surrounded by those who had served Aerys, the Mad King. He couldn't understand it, at first. But then he remembered the claustrophobia and paranoia of the Red Keep. Gossip, rumour and intrigue swirled morning, noon and night. It made people and it destroyed them. In reality, it was small wonder that Robert grew suspicious of everyone.

"It's probably a test for both of us," Ned replied magnanimously. "If there's a way to save both the Targaryen children, I can't think of it. Daenarys will be the easier to save and there's a dozen ways to get at her."

"We'll have to go through Ser Willem Darry-"

"On old and blind man," Ned interjected.

A natural lull in the conversation fell and Ned turned to the small port hole in the cabin. Outside, the sea was growing choppy, with white capped waves brushing boisterously against the ship, making it sway gently. Fortunately, the motion of the ship didn't seem to bother either man, but the silence was soon punctured by retching from outside the door. Jory, it seemed, hadn't quite found his sea legs yet. Ser Barristan and Ned looked at each other and grinned knowingly.

"He'll be fine!" Ned chuckled, before turning serious again. "If we deliberately botch this, will Viserys have the sense to run? Or will he stand and try to fight?"

"Stand and fight, if what I've heard is true," Ser Barristan replied. "He'll be sure to bring the girl with him if he does eventually run. Robert will find out; we will be skinned alive and someone else will be sent to do the job properly – as you have pointed out already, Eddard."

It was a slim hope, and one that died fast. The chances of saving both Viserys and Daenarys were slim to non-existent. Ned tried to imagine what Robert and Cersei's reaction would be if they presented the head of Viserys, but the living prisoner Daenarys. It still didn't bear repeating. All that would happen was that Daenarys would be holed up in the dungeons of the Red Keep and executed as soon as she became of age. If some other unfortunate accident did not befall her before that time. The Lannisters alone would be keen to bring about such a tragic event.

But, no one would think to look north for young Daenarys. Ned sat back, letting the roll and lull of the ship soothe his troubled mind and body, while the seed of the idea took root. He could recall, with painful clarity, how Catelyn had reacted when he returned from war with someone else's child. But, on the other hand, Daenarys isn't his child, either. Or at least, not passed off as his child. She wouldn't be living at Winterfell, either. Just nearby, with a family he could trust. Or would he have to trust them? He could think of a backstory and the child herself was too small to contradict it.

Whatever he chose to do, he could defer making the final decision until he had the child safe in his keeping. Nothing was guaranteed until the deed was done and they hadn't even reached Braavos yet. By early evening, a storm had whipped up and their progress across the Narrow Sea had been delayed. By the end, the journey had taken a full two days when they dropped anchor near the Braavosi mainland.

Ned caught up with Ser Barristan just as their wares were being unloaded from the ship first. As part of their cover for being in Braavos, they were setting up business in the Market. To keep up the front, they had brought with them bolts of fabric, spices and wine. It would also give them good reason to be mingling with the crowds that swarmed around the islands that made up Braavos. They knew where the Targaryens were and they knew they frequented the Markets looking for goods imported from their homeland. It was a trap just waiting to be sprung.

"It's going to be a waiting game once we're set up," Ned explained to Ser Barristan. "But it'll give us more time to plan for when the moment does come."

Ser Barristan nodded. "It's to our benefit," he concurred. "Keep some of that silk and velvet handy, and one of the empty boxes. We might be needing it before long."

Market traders aren't normally armed, so their swords were hidden in the boxes being unloaded from the ships. Their daggers they kept concealed beneath fine silk tunics in their belts. Ned had another sheaved safely and slid down the side of his boot, just in case. But, otherwise, they were just two, relatively non-descript traders from across the sea. It was all the better to blend in the crowds.


	4. The Hit

**Author's Note: thank you to everyone who has read, favourited, altered and reviewed this story. It means a lot, so thank you!**

* * *

**Chapter Four: The Hit**

So far, the most exciting part of their mission had entailed sailing through the legs of the bronze and rock Titan that straddled two of the main islands of the Braavosi archipelago. But now, Ser Barristan and Ned were moonlighting as Market Traders. A job that if they had ever envied before, they certainly didn't anymore. They docked in Ragman Harbour, where their galley was still moored. Since then, however, it was a matter of Ned minding their market stall while Ser Barristan mingled with the crowds, keeping his eyes and ears open to everything around him. Every evening, they retired to a tavern used my many passing traders and travellers, just like all the others. The most interesting gossip they picked up, however, had nothing to do with the Targaryens, but the Iron Islands and Balon Greyjoy, to their annoyance.

On the plus side, if they harboured any worries about blending in, they were soon banished. The city's waterways were crowded with boat traffic from all over the known world. From Westeros and Dorne, to Lys and Myr. People of all races and creeds crowded every street, alley and thoroughfare. Travellers just passing through; traders and envoys made up most of this transitory population – mercifully, making discretion easy. The only drawback being, that which worked for them also worked for their quarry. Spotting the remaining two Targaryens among the thronging ports and harbours of Braavos was akin to searching for a needle in a haystack. They had the details of the house, a description of its appearance and defining features. They knew the Targaryen 'look' and Ser Barristan knew Ser Willem Darry by sight. But even armed with all that information, the job was still difficult.

In the end, it took another week for the breakthrough to come. Ser Barristan was following up a lead they'd managed to pick up from talking to another trader and Ned had remained behind. He had taken to using his long hours of forced idleness to upholster the interior of one of their crates, down behind the stall and out of sight. In a previous life, it had been used as a case for the transportation of longbows. It was a touch too narrow for Ned's liking, but it was six foot long and already had some interior padding from when it was home to the weapons. But, it would do for what he had in mind.

"Eddard!"

Ser Barristan laid a hand on Ned's shoulder, drawing him away from the crate. Ned turned to see him flushed in the face and breathless. It was like he'd been sprinting through the streets and sweat beaded his brow.

"What is it?" he asked, frowning in consternation.

Ser Barristan cast a furtive glance over his shoulder, checking to see who was around. As always, crowds of people were herding past, paying them no attention at all. Satisfied that no one was lingering to eavesdrop, Barristan explained what had happened, dropping his voice to a cautious whisper.

"I found the house two days ago and, today, I saw Ser Willem Darry actually leave it with the children in tow. It's them, without a doubt."

Ned's heart pulsed painfully in his chest, despite his relief that the end of their mission was looming into view. He swallowed, finding that his mouth was suddenly running dry. Yes, he wished more than anything to get back to Winterfell and be back amongst his family. But he dreaded the moment of reckoning just as much.

"Where is it? Where are they now?" he asked, the words feeling clumsy.

"It's three miles from here, to the north through the main high street," Selmy replied. "Jory is in hiding nearby, watching over the house until we get back."

Ned turned away as he tried to think of the best way to go about the next phase of their mission.

"We can't close up early," he said. "It could draw attention to us if we have a sudden urge for a day off."

This didn't sit well with Ser Barristan, who looked almost disappointed. It wasn't as if they had done a roaring trade since they set up their false business. It rankled Ned, even though this wasn't their livelihood – it still felt like failure. It didn't bode well.

"If we wait until later, work after dark it would suit us well," Selmy eventually replied. "It suits me well enough. But you need to see it; it could be complicated."

"Why so?" Ned asked, already starting to pack up a few of their wares. The sun was beginning to sink behind the hills, so it wouldn't be too suspicious. "Are there problems with the location?"

Ser Barristan paused again, mulling it over.

"It's close to the canal," he said. "I'm thinking old Ser Willem might have an accident and fall in."

"With a little help from us," Ned replied, filling in the blanks for himself. "Any chance of bringing the ship up the canal?"

"No, it's too big," replied Barristan. "But we could bring one of the skiffs up and have it waiting."

"We'll do that, then," Ned suggested. "Bring the skiff up as close to the house as we can, get the girl and conceal her on board ourselves. That way, the crew won't even know she's with us-"

"But how?"

Ned glanced down at the box he'd upholstered and smiled.

"It's not ideal, but it'll serve. Plenty of room for a three year old."

Ser Barristan frowned at it, sceptical to say the least. "Won't she suffocate?" he asked, but then noticed the slats in the lid. "I see. The spaces in between will keep the air circulating. Let's just hope the sea's not too rough."

* * *

That evening, once dusk had settled and the only light came from guttering torches, the skiff sailed cautiously up the canal. The water undulated softly, carrying them on their way. Ned kept track of every private wharf they passed. Each one led to the garden of a private home, but up ahead, a bridge barred their path. On the bridge, a man in a cloak with the cowl pulled down low bore a lantern with a candle inside. It was just a tiny, glowing pin-prick of light in the distance.

Ser Barristan came up to the prow, beside Ned who was still making note of their surroundings and wondering what to do about that watchman.

"Don't look so worried, Ned," he murmured in his ear. "It's only Jory. His sword's under the cloak."

Ned breathed silent sigh of relief. But, at this hour, the river traffic was all going the opposite way, or had been securely moored for the night. They would have to be quick if they wished to avoid drawing attention to themselves. More positively, however, their progress would be quick now that the waterway was emptying.

"We'll row on, then," said Eddard. "Stop as soon as we get to that bridge."

"We can probably drop anchor under it, as long as you don't mind getting wet."

It wasn't ideal, but it would be safer. Opting for safety, Ned agreed and they took up the oars again. As they drew close to Jory's position on a private wharf nearest to the bridge, they drew to a halt to rest up. Rowing themselves had been exhausting work in itself. There was a splash as Jory began waded through the river, his breeches pulled up over his knees and the cloak over his shoulder in an effort to stay dry. The light of the lantern glimmered dully from where he'd left it on the banks of the canal.

Ned helped pull him into the boat.

"All three are in the house and the child has been put to bed, I think," he explained, bringing them up to speed on the activities of the occupants. "It's the third one down from here."

Ned counted down the houses, using the soft yellow taper lights in the windows as a guide. Silently, he prayed to the old Gods that Daenarys was already fast asleep, and would remain so until after their work was done. Ser Barristan rooted in one of the boxes they had brought with them and produced a skin of wine and some cold salt beef from a barrel. With nerves affecting them all, they ate little but took hearty swigs of the wine.

By the time they were wading ashore, a full moon had risen but was partially obscured by a bank of clouds. Jory's lantern had guttered out, as well. But there was still just enough light to make out the dirt road they found themselves on. Some scrubland formed a path to the front of the houses, and a badly lit pavement. Greenery was sprouting between cracks in the flagstones, but the road was well maintained and easily wide enough for three carriages to ride abreast. But still, their escape was to be by water.

As soon as the house with the red door came into view, the three of them formed up in a silent procession. They each drew down the hoods of their cloaks, daggers drawn and concealed up large, wide cut sleeves. The porch of the house was small, allowing two of them to conceal themselves behind the wall that separated the red doored house from its neighbour.

"How're we going to draw Darry out?" asked Ned as they paused outside the house.

"Leave it to me," Ser Barristan replied. "Now you two, get behind the porch wall."

Ned and Jory held their breath as they slid behind the wall. One the opposite side they heard Barristan tugging on the bell-pull. It seemed to take an age for the sound of shuffling footsteps from inside to reach them, but it couldn't have been more than a minute in reality.

"Who goes there?"

They heard the old Knight's voice, muffled by the still closed door, calling tremulously out. Ned strained his ears as Barristan trotted out some lie to get the man to open up, playing on the enormous debts he'd run up in his efforts to keep the children safe.

"Ser Willem, I come from the Iron Bank. My Master's sent-"

"You know I can't pay you," Ser Willem cut over Ser Barristan as he pulled the door open.

He realised the subterfuge too late. As soon as the snick of the lock clicked back, Barristan shouldered the door open, sending Ser Willem reeling back. The crash of a falling hat stand was a lot louder than Ned would have been comfortable. But he used it as cover to dart through the door, with Jory hot on his heels.

"Jory, get the rear door and guard it," he snapped in command.

His voice was almost drowned out by the panicked shouts of Ser Willem Darry.

"Children! The Usurper! Run!" he bellowed, before Ser Barristan silenced him with a sharp blow to the side of his head.

He wasn't dead, just unconscious, with a thin trickle of blood oozing from a cut on his temple. Ned didn't see what Barristan used, but there was now a rock doorstopper lying beside the felled body. Jory managed to get the front door closed and locked again without moving Ser Willem. Then, after the commotion that lasted no more than a few seconds, all was completely silent again. As though stunned by the lack of action, the three men looked at one another for a long moment, before Jory remembered Ned's command to keep guard at the rear door.

Ned glanced towards the wooden stairwell that led to the first floor of the building, wondering if both Targaryens were fast asleep. On his way through to the back room, Jory peered inside the front room and mouthed the word 'empty' back at Ned. With that, Ser Barristan began mounting the stairs, sword drawn and Ned following close behind. From what he could recall of the front and back of the houses, the children would not be able to escape without coming down the stairs. But then, he also guessed that Darry had built in secret escapes and they couldn't rule it out.

It was dark, and Ned almost had to reach out and lay a hand on Barristan's shoulder to keep track of him as they came to the landing. Luckily, there was a landing window, through which a narrow beam of moonlight slanted through the mullioned glass. It illuminated a narrow passageway that led through to the back of the house. It split, forking left and right, but they couldn't see round the corner until Viserys stepped out right in front of them.

His hair was silver-grey in the pale moonlight. Skin waxy and eyes wide in alarm when he found himself confronted with three drawn swords.

"Wh-who are you?" he demanded, taking an instinctive backwards step.

The first thing Ned noticed was a stick-thin pair of arms clinging to his neck from behind. He realised then that Viserys was carrying his baby sister piggy-back style as he attempted to flee. As soon as he realised this, a thin whimpering sound emitted, drawing an angry rebuke from the teen. "Shut up, Dany!" he growled, glancing over his shoulder.

"Come on now, Viserys," Ser Barristan said, training the point of his sword on the teen. "Give yourself up now. The game's over."

They reached a stand-off. Viserys and his sister, still hidden behind his back, and the three assassins sent by King Robert. They all glared from one to the other in a spiralling tension that could be cut with a Valyrian blade.

"Ser Barristan's got the truth of it, Viserys," said Ned as he sidled down the left hand bend to block his escape route. "Give yourself up and you may yet live," he flinched at the lie.

Jory, having set aside the command to guard the rear door when it became clear the children were upstairs, moved to block the right passage. Viserys was cornered, but his fighting spirit had not abandoned him. While they were all still looking from one to the other, waiting for the impasse to break, he renewed his grip on his sister's legs, and suddenly darted forwards, knocking Barristan aside as he charged. Simultaneously, Ned launched himself after the boy, trying to make a grab for Daenarys who was now screaming in terror. But he missed, having got no further than grabbing at a few strands of stray silver hairs.

"Get after them!" Barristan yelled.

He didn't need to, already they were giving chase until Viserys reached the front door. In his panic, he yanked on the door handle, swearing loudly as he did so. Finding it locked only heightened his panic even further and he was no longer thinking straight. Jory reached him first, and dragged him to the ground after pulling Dany off his back and dumping her painfully on the ground.

"Come on now, son," he said, breathlessly, imploring Viserys to give himself up.

But the boy struck out with a force that shocked Ned. Viserys elbowed Jory firmly in the stomach, making him grunt with pain and double over. He released his grip on Viserys.

"You bastards!" Viserys hissed at all three of them at once. "You've really woken the dragon now! I'll make you all sorry you were born!"

He ranted at them with vigour while pelting them with ornaments and wall hangings, keeping them back as he tried to retrieve his bawling sister. Then, Barristan had had enough and charged through the bombardment and tackled Viserys to the ground in the kitchen, at the rear of the house. The fight was moving dangerously close enough to being overheard, so for now, Dany lay forgotten in the hallway as they got to Viserys. The older teen was by far the biggest threat and any hope of saving him, as well as Dany, had long ago evaporated.

But, none of that made the task any easier. Ser Barristan managed to get him immobilised on the kitchen floor, with his arms pinned behind his back with one hand. In his free hand, he held a silver dagger. Over the curses from the cornered Prince, Barristan mouthed to the Gods some words of contrition as he pulled back Viserys' head and cut his throat. The deposed Prince choked, gurgled in a way that made Ned's stomach churn and, once again, they were plunged into a terrible silence.

"The Gods forgive me," murmured Ser Barristan, who turned and vomited into a nearby vase. His hands left a trail of blood across the kitchen floor.

The Gods forgive us all, thought Ned as he turned back into the hallway where he'd left Daenarys. The only way he knew he could atone for what he'd brought to pass in this house, was to make sure she, at least, was kept safe.

The little girl had crawled to the only port of safety she had ever known: Ser Willem Darry. She had curled into a little ball near his unconscious body with one tiny, matchstick arm draped over his chest. Her face she buried his breast and sobbed noisily,

"Jory," Ned called over his shoulder, "clean up in the kitchen. Put the body in one of those crates – Robert wants to see it. Ser Barristan, do you want to sail the skiff round to the back of the house?"

Ned had rightly guessed that Ser Barristan needed to get back out into the open air, and he accepted the task gratefully. Meanwhile, Ned had to placate the child, Daenarys. She was looking at him now, with lilac eyes wide in terror, her lower lip trembling against a renewed onslaught of body-wracking sobs. He checked Ser Willem, but he was still out cold. Ned shrugged off his cloak and wrapped it around the child's narrow shoulders.

"Come on now, little one," he murmured softly to her, drawing her away from the body in the hallway. "Come to me, sweetling."

"N-no," she stammered, but offered little resistance. "Viserys," she added, pathetically.

She was wearing a linen night rail. As Ned wrapped his cloak around her, he noticed the bruises, some fresh but many more were fading, that blossomed against her pale skin. Ones on her forearm were clearly defence wounds. None of it justified what had just happened to Viserys – Ned knew that well enough. But, it did ease his guilt somewhat.

Not a half-hour later, Barristan was back, dripping wet from wading through the river, to tell them the skiff boat was moored directly out back. As soon as the grim task of removing the body into a crate was complete, Ned helped haul it onto the skiff before going back for Dany. Whatever her brother had done to her, he did not want her to see his mutilated body. Only once the unpleasantness was out of sight did he go back for the child. He picked her up, clutching her to his chest and placed a protective hand round her head, so she would not see any blood on her way out.

"Jory, wait until Barristan and I are out of sight; get Darry outside and burn the house," he instructed, tonelessly.

The girl was silent, now. Even if anyone did look out of their window, it simply looked like Ned was carrying a bundle of rags to their skiff boat. No one would be able to see the child inside them. Once they were back on the skiff, he tucked Dany safely in the box he had upholstered just for this occasion. He shushed her gently, even though she made no noise.

"Be brave," he whispered to her as she curled up in her box. "Just for a few more days, stay brave."

He closed the lid on the box, but did not lock it. Within minutes, they were slowly sailing down the canal again, drifting past dark and silent houses. All the way out to Ragman's Harbour, where their galley was moored. Barristan and Ned worked together to load Dany's box onto the ship, just in case she started to cry again. But it sounded to Ned as though she'd managed to fall asleep in there.

"No one is to touch this box," Ned had instructed the crew. "There is a consignment of wild fire in there and we need to get it back to King's Landing safely."

He didn't care if the excuse was plausible, he just wanted to keep them away from the child at whatever cost. As soon as she, and the rest of the cargo, were safely loaded, the crew wouldn't bother it again anyway. Not until they reached King's Landing again.

Two hours later, Jory had rejoined them on the galley and they set sail almost immediately.

"It is all done," Jory said, referring to the burning. "Just as you asked."

They were sitting in the cargo area, guarding over Dany deep in the bowels of the ship. Ned had checked on her as soon as they set sail and, as he suspected, she had fallen asleep, exhausted from the night's trauma. Barristan did bring dreamwine, just in case of an emergency, but Ned could see it wouldn't be needed. Dany was out for the count and he left the lid of her box open. It was only closed if a crew man came too close.

By dawn, the ship was out in the Narrow Sea again, bound for King's Landing to deposit Barristan and the body. Then: Winterfell.

"Do you think Robert will be furious about the girl's mysterious miracle escape?" asked Barristan, leaning against the wall of the ship in exhaustion.

Ned was grateful that he wouldn't be there to see it. He was going straight home and Dany would be coming with him. Then, he remembered the rumours they had picked up from Pyke Island traders. If they were to be believed, trouble would soon be coming from much closer to home than any Targaryen offshoots.

"If what we heard is true, Barristan, Balon Greyjoy may just take the heat off us," he replied, thoughtfully.

Ser Barristan groaned. "We pay the Iron Price," he grizzled in impersonation of the troublesome Lord of the Iron Islands, making Ned and Jory snort with laughter.

Whatever was happening, it could wait until tomorrow, when they got back to the real world. For the time being, they all needed rest before thinking of the next step in the new life of Daenarys Targaryen.

* * *

**Thanks again for reading; reviews would be very welcome.**


	5. The Iron Price

**Author Note:** thank you to everyone who has read, favourited and followed this story. Thanks also to those who reviewed. Finally, a belated apology for the slightly, er, unsavoury nature of the last chapter!

**I may be altering the timing of Greyjoy's rebellion here, but I don't think it's too far out but apologies for inaccuracies.**

* * *

**Chapter Five: The Iron Price**

Large, dark forms took shape as the sea mists gradually cleared. War ships looming on the distant horizon; a vast fleet setting out from Blackwater Bay and sailing due north. A hue and a cry went up on board Ned's galley, waking him forcefully from the fitful slumber he'd drifted into. When he sat up, he noticed that Ser Barristan was already gone and Jory was lulling a fitful Daenarys back into her box. Excusing himself, Ned rapidly buckled his sword belt with slumber-heavy fingers while making a dash for the upper decks. Once there, he could see it for himself. They raised their own flag and sent up silent prayers to the old gods and the new for a strong wind to urge their progress onwards.

However, they hadn't gone much farther when the royal skiff, recognisable by its display of the royal standard, made rapid progress towards them. Before they had even got within a nautical mile of the galley, some of the deck hands were lowering the rope ladders to get King Robert's messenger on board with as small delay as possible.

"Balon Greyjoy," said Ned, as soon as he met up with Ser Barristan at the prow of the ship. They were sailing so fast now that the prow cut through the choppy waves amidst a plume of spray. Already, he could taste the heavy sea-salt on his lips as he wet them. Ser Barristan turned to look at Ned through worry lined eyes.

"No prizes for guessing this one, my lord," he wryly replied. "The Squid King's tentacles exceed their grasp." He tried to inject some humour into his tone, but failed.

Meanwhile, the deck hands had succeeded in dragging the King's messenger from the skiff and on to the galley. He stood on the deck, swaying with the motion of the ship, breathless and sweating as he choked out his news.

"Balon Greyjoy has been crowned King of the Iron Islands," he panted, grasping a mast pole for support. "He launched a surprise attack on Lannisport; the Lannister fleet is burned by Victarion Greyjoy. There have been raids and attacks along the coast and King Robert has ridden north to raise an army. He commands Ser Barristan to lead the attack on Old Wyk; you, my Lord of Winterfell, are to join His Grace at Pyke."

Ned felt himself reel from the news. True, he had been expecting trouble from Greyjoy, who had remained neutral during Robert's rebellion, but they hadn't expected all-out war. Once he recovered himself from the impact of the blow, his thoughts flew to Winterfell: his wife and children. But then his bannermen. Who would raise them? How would he get there in time to muster his own troops and get to Pyke before it was too late?

"Listen," he barked at the messenger, stepping around Ser Barristan with his hand on the hilt of Ice. "I need to get to Winterfell-"

"No need, my lord," the messenger interjected, too frantic to observe social niceties. "Your Lady wife has already risen the North in your name. Your father in law and brother in law have risen the Riverlands and the Lannisters are already regrouping for the assault on Greyjoy. Lord Stannis Baratheon is already at sea, preparing to defend from the seas."

A surge of pride for Catelyn's bravery swept over Ned, but was soon subdued by thoughts of the task ahead of them. They would have to fall in with the King's fleet: sailing alone to the Iron Islands was out of the question, they would be captured by the enemy within minutes of entering enemy waters. They would have to break through the ranks like the others, and meet up with King Robert on land at the first opportunity. He only hoped Catelyn's courage extended to getting the Stark bannermen to the best strategic position for battle. The houses sworn to the Starks were numerous, from Mormont, to Manderly, to Reed, Tully and Umber. Catelyn was not alone, of that Ned was at least assured. Their army would be in the thousands.

Ned stepped forward to shake the messenger by the hand. "Tell the King I am on my way and will join him as soon as I can."

Ser Barristan did the same, adding: "Tell him from me, that I'll be leading the army on Old Wyk, as commanded, within hours."

Ser Barristan was Kingsguard, and he felt the frustrating hours spent catching up with the royal fleet keenly. His place was by the King's side, not poring over maps on a storm-tossed galley. But, under the circumstances, he knew he had no choice for it would take weeks to go by land. As their galley went at full speed up the coast amidst the Royal fleet commandeered by Stannis Baratheon, they noted the burned out wreckage of Lannisport and the coastal towns. The wrath of Tywin Lannister would be terrible to behold – of that Ned was certain. Euron Greyjoy, personally, had torched the Lannister patriarch's flagship and taken great joy in doing so. Balon Greyjoy, he could only assume, had taken leave of his senses. Battle was raging on land, they caught the distant sounds of it carried on the wind and even the faintest smell of smoke mingled with the salty sea spray – villages set alight in the Greyjoy raids.

* * *

"My Lord, what news?"

Jory cornered Ned as he dipped below decks to check up on the girl and prepare for docking north of Lannisport, early in the afternoon. She was out of her box, but under the ever watchful eye of Jory. Beside, Ned wasn't worried. No one came below decks now, not with the rebellion. He was mildly surprised that that had not yet been attacked. However, on the other hand, he knew it meant that Greyjoy's army were engaged on land already.

"It's open rebellion out there," Ned explained, keeping his voice low. He was aware of Daenarys peering out at him from behind the box, fear and suspicion in her eyes. Rightly so. He suppressed a curse as he realised she would have to remain hidden on board the ship throughout the rebellion. "You're going to have to stay here with the child. I'm sorry." They had a host of thousands, but even sparing just one felt like a painful sacrifice. But the child had needs, too. It was then that the idea came to him. Just as he was turning away from the silent, watchful child still lurking behind the cushioned coffin that made her temporary home. "Keep her close, Jory. Sail up to Pyke and smuggle her off the ship there. Just get her off the ship and if it gets taken by the enemy, she'll still be safe. If she gets found by the Lannisters or anyone else, she'll be a peasant, orphaned by the rebellion. They won't bother her but we'll claim her."

With her now tattered roughspun night shift, Daenarys was close enough to peasant looking already. If she got muddied up on Pyke, she'd be even more so. He even managed to fashion a cloak and cowl for her, to disguise her distinctive hair. Jory took her tiny hand in his own gauntleted one, where she stared at it in wonder. "I swear, I'll protect her with my own life."

Ned didn't doubt that for a minute.

Before they disembarked, the fighting had begun at sea. All Ned had by way of arms was Ice, and the sword was useless at sea. They had to remain at the heart of the warships, were Stannis Baratheon surpassed himself in his commanding position. The grey skies were incandescent with the light of thousands of flaming arrows raining down upon the enemy. The tactic was so effective, they were eventually able to bring their own ship ashore for a proper beach landing. His own men, vast hordes of them were already laying siege and repelling invaders and Robert, with the royal army, were only an hour's ride away.

In the meantime, however, Ned had to join his forces and ride further North West to launch the assault on Pyke Island itself. It was almost dark by the time Robert's forces joined with Ned's. The dusk was almost indiscernible because of the flames of the burning ships. The standards that fluttered all around Ned were intermittently lit up as the flames rhythmically intensified to booms of exploding wildfire both near and far. The Tully trout, the Mormont bear and various other sigils flashing green and orange in the flames as battle intensified.

Ned played his part, slashing and hacking at any enemy foolhardy enough to stray near their camp. The towns lay behind them, offering tempting plunder to the Greyjoy forces. True to their words, they do not sow and there was plenty of rich pickings to be had in those prosperous trading towns on the coast. But Robert's forces combined seamlessly, repelling the invaders back into the restless seas. There was no time for pleasantries as Robert and Ned were reunited on the shores, ready to sail out to Pyke. But the King was in his element. His men were lined up in ranks, foot soldiers up front, armed with swords and protected by boiled leather and chainmail hauberks. Then came the mounted knights, Ned and Robert among them, with the longbow men bringing up the rear.

"I'll damn well charge them the fucking iron price," Robert Baratheon's voice boomed out over the roar of the melee. "With extra fucking iron interest!"

Ned caught the sinister glimmer of the King's Warhammer in a flash of light as they boarded the skiffs for the assault. The moment came and they cast out to sea. Vast numbers of them all setting off for Pyke at once. Further out at sea, Ned knew Barristan Selmy was probably doing the same at Old Wyk. Adrenaline coursed through veins of every man at arms as they landed at Pyke. It smothered all human emotions, even in amongst the screams of the dead and dying – from both sets of combatants. The Lannister Lion roared from the silk sails of a nearby ship, closing in on the Iron Islands, the ripple of the wind giving it life. Ned almost cheered aloud to see it.

But, the fighting was ferocious. The Greyjoy's put up more of a fight than Ned imagined possible for such a small community. They were fighting their way up the coast, laying siege, when the night sky was suddenly, once again, alight with an inferno. Ned glanced northwards, to where Botley Castle was being razed to the ground. But the breach at the coast was still not broken. King Robert vanished into a throng of fighting men, leaving Ned to battle his way alone, for the time being. He remounted his horse, straight from the skiff, and fell back in a feigned retreat. All the while, he shouted out the orders to his men.

"Second line: FORWARDS!"

From there, it all happened in a haze. Thousands of heavily armed men surged forwards in one violent, seething mass. In the midst of it all, Ned's eye was drawn to a column of shimmering green fire leading the way through the breach. By the light of that mystical fire, the Bear sigil of House Mormont followed secondly through the newly opened breach. Ned turned back to his own battle, one that would soon be over, as he continued to slice his way through enemy ranks. Soon, stench of salt was replaced by thick smoke, spilled blood and shit as the enemy was crushed beneath the weight of the royal army. By dawn, word leaked through the men that Maron and Rodrik Greyjoy, the two elder sons of Balon, were dead. Stannis Baratheon had circled the Greyjoy fleet and utterly destroyed it and, finally, the Lannisters had captured Aeron Greyjoy and held him prisoner beneath Casterly Rock.

* * *

In a daze, leaden with fatigue and battle exhaustion, Ned stood on the shores of Pyke Island, watching it smoulder in the thin dawn light. Corpses lined the beaches like flotsam from a shipwreck; the groans and cries of the dying and wounded still broke the silence, but much weaker now. They were almost all despatched to their makers. Botley Castle smouldered, now. Embers, were once a great castle stood. Even the victors were too exhausted to celebrate now. There were bawdy songs and victory chants when they first entered the breach. But now, in the cold light of day, the rush of the fight was subsiding, leaving only dreary exhaustion.

The only person not flat on their back with tiredness was Robert. He, his Kingsguard and some of his retainers were lined up along the harbour, where Ned soon joined them.

"What's this?" he asked the King when he drew level with them.

Robert afforded him a lopsided grin as he accepted a horn of ale from a page.

"Here comes the King, Ned," he said, jerking his head further up the pier.

There he was, too. Balon Greyjoy, demoralised and defeated, being led out to formally submit to King Robert. His sons were dead; precious fleet destroyed and even one of his brothers was lost to him. All for nothing. The Lord of the Iron Islands was being pinned in place by two of the Kingsguard, one on either side of him. They forced him to kneel at Robert's feet, from where he swore unequivocal loyalty. He brought this humiliation down on his own head, and Ned couldn't feel much by way of sympathy.

Another few hours pass, and Ned and Robert find themselves strolling along the seafront ports. Markets would normally be set up along that part of town, but Greyjoy had wrecked that, too. The soldiers were looting the houses and Robert made only half-hearted attempts to reign them in. Their blood was up, Ned understood that. But he still wished Robert would instil more discipline in his men. He was grateful that the Stark host was much more restrained. Even though he did see Jory darting into one of the nearby houses.

They passed Thoros of Myr, who was deep in conversation with Jorah Mormont over a shared skin of ale. Robert strode over to them, slapping them both heartily on the backs by way of greeting. Jorah winced, but hastily disguised it as a gratified smile.

"Did you see these two mad men, Ned?" Robert asked, voice loud and hale again as he relived the battle in his head. "Show Ned your blade, Thoros. Go on, show him!"

Thoros slid his blade from the scabbard, revealing steel that was blackened and burned. A memory of shimmering green flames reared up in Ned's memory, through the haze of the battle and he grinned from ear to ear.

"That was you!" he retorted, laughing. "What was that? It looked incredible."

"Wildfire, my lord," Ser Thoros replied, grinning just as widely. "A fine lick of that stuff, and the blade lights up for hours."

Even stolid and steady Ned had to admit it had been an impressive sight. However, he turned to Jorah Mormont, and commended him for his bravery as well. "Second through the breach, Jorah. Well done. You did your house and your father proud."

"Some fine men, Ned. Fine men," Robert sighed, almost wistful as though he was growing maudlin.

Mormont was about to say something in reply to Ned, when frantic shouting cut him off. It was Jory, calling out to Ned, addressing him by title. He was standing in the ruins of a burned out cottage, waving his arms frantically. It was accompanied by the sounds of a crying child.

"A dying child," he called out, still waving. "Bring water!"

"Let it die!" growled Robert, heaving a mirthless laugh.

Ned shot him a withering look. But, to his surprise, it was Mormont who handed him a skin of water. "Take it," he said. "If you need anything else, I'm right here."

"If you're about to run off," said Robert, resigned. "Make sure you're back in time for these two getting their Knighthoods."

The other two men looked genuinely shocked by the news. Robert congratulated them both, thanked the newly knighted Ser Jorah for the water, and ran to join Jory. He wasn't so very far away. A fact that he was eternally grateful for as the suspicious, dark eyes of the locals peered out angrily at him from behind their barricaded doors. Inside the burned out ruins, he found Jory with Daenarys dandled in his lap. He had smeared charcoal round her face and she had clearly been having a nice time playing in the mud. When he told her she could stop crying now, she did.

"She's good, isn't she?" said Jory, more as an observation than anything. He looked rather proud, too.

Ned took her from him and bounced her on his hip, from where she began to tremble again. He regarded her carefully, pulling the hood of her cloak up to cover her hair. She looked up at him, still bleary eyed and frightened.

"This is her story now," Ned explained to Jory. "She is an orphan child, rescued from the wreckage of this house."

A dark shadow briefly passed over Jory's face. "What about when she's older, and she starts asking questions?"

He knew, in his heart that he would not – could not – lie to her forever. But that could wait, for now he had to keep her safe against the odds. This lie would be her life until that moment of safety came.

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it," Ned replied. "Did anyone see you leave the boat with her?"

Jory laughed. "In the heat of battle? No!"

Ned breathed a sigh of relief, but a flicker of worry came over him as he realised they'd been out in the open all night. Not there, but nearby. Still in the open. As rouses went, it wasn't perfect. But this staged rescue of an orphan girl was better than simply acquiring an extra child completely out of the blue. Together, the three of them walked back out into the open, with Daenarys still carefully wrapped up in Ned's old cloak. She grizzled restlessly as the cold, damp air hit her skin. However, they walked two paces when they bumped into Ser Jorah.

"Do you need a hand, My Lord?" the younger man asked, nodding to the bundled up child in Ned's arms. "It's my duty to protect the weak now that I'm a proper Night."

He grinned, evidently still getting used to the new position Robert had bestowed on him. But, Ned handed back the water skin gratefully. "You've already done enough Ser Jorah. Thank you."

"Anytime, My Lord," he replied, turning to walk away. Then, he stopped and glanced back over his shoulder. "The King said he wants a word with you. But he didn't say what."

Ned sighed inwardly. Handing Daenarys back to Jory, he followed Jorah back to the harbour where they had been talking before the interruption. King Robert was sat on the harbour floor now, with Thoros of Myr at his side. Both were slugging at horns of wine, laughing and joking like two old friends. However, when he saw Ned approaching, Robert cut himself off mid-flow and hauled himself wearily back to his feet.

"Ah Ned, a word if I may," he said, drawing Ned away from the other two. "I know it's a big ask, but you know I trust only you…"

Ned braced himself for whatever was coming next, already second guessing.

"But," continued King Robert. "You are the best man for the job. It's about Greyjoy's youngest son, Theon."

Ned guessed wrong. He was expecting a barrage of questions about the Targaryens. Robert cannot possibly want Theon dead? But Ned was feeling sick already.

"Barristan briefed me on the little job I gave you both," said Robert.

"It was Barristan who performed the actual hit, Your Grace," Ned explained, but Robert waved him down.

"Take Theon Greyjoy back to Winterfell with you, as your ward and hostage," Robert ploughed on. "As surety for our Lord's future loyalty. Do it for me, Ned?"

Ned absorbed the impact of the verbal blow with as much grace as he could muster. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath and tried to imagine Catelyn's reaction when she finds out. On second thoughts, he decided it would be best not to. When he opened his eyes again, he looked at his old friend wearily. "Gladly, Your Grace," he answered. Inside, he was groaning.

**Apologies for the drawn out chapter, but thank you for reading. Reviews appreciated.**


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